


Come, Break Me Down

by ryukoishida



Series: Radical Notion [2]
Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gunplay, M/M, Mafia AU, assassin!Gieve, weapon designer!Isfan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 17:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10416897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: Isfan is only in this line of business to await his chance to avenge his brother’s death someday; he never expects to fall in love with the deadliest assassin in Lion’s Den. [Mafia AU][Written for PARS 2017 | Day 2: Spring Feelings]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that sad excuse of a mafia AU? Yeah, I wrote more for it. Rather than reading this as a linear story, just… treat these as little vignettes, I guess. Might help if you read the first part, but it’s not necessary.

“Mr. Isfan?” the stranger asks the moment he opens the door to his cheap, one-room apartment unit.

 

It’s almost three in the morning.

 

“Yes, and who the hell are you?” he resists the urge to yawn, the defense mechanism of having a strange man dressed in a tailored suit of somber colours ringing his doorbell so urgently in the middle of the night hasn’t quite kicked in yet.

 

“Mr. Shapur sent me,” he only says, and with both hands, offers him a white envelope, “to give you this.”

 

“You a co-worker of my brother’s?” Isfan narrows his eyes as he plucks the letter out of the man’s hands, molten gold irises gleaming with a trace of suspicion that’s justifiable given the line of business that his brother is in — the kind of business that Shapur doesn’t want Isfan to be entangled with.

 

They may not be borne of the same mother, but Shapur was the one who took care of him since his mother was killed in an unfortunate “accident”. Of course, as Isfan grew older and understood more of the circumstances of his broken family — the illicit relationship his mother had with Shapur’s father, who, at the time, was working for the largest criminal empire of Pars as one of the leader’s right-hand men — he knew that his mother died because of another woman’s jealousy and irrationality.

 

Isfan doesn’t blame Shapur for any of it; in fact, he’s thankful for all that Shapur has done to support him — both financially and emotionally. Shapur never disclosed anything related to his work or source of income, and Isfan never thought to ask. Despite that, their relationship isn’t strained by their parents’ estranged affairs; it has only pulled the two half-brothers closer than ever.

 

“I’m one of his subordinates,” the man clarifies, and Isfan hears the quiet pride in his voice, in the way he straightens himself a bit taller when Isfan’s glare doesn’t phase out.

 

“Well, thank you for bringing me this,” Isfan waves the letter in his hand, the motion a little stiff and unnecessary, so he stops. “Anything else?”

 

The man, who now upon closer inspection, seems at least a few years younger than Isfan who’s a fourth-year majoring in mechanical engineering at the local university himself, looks hesitant for a short moment, his mouth opening slightly as if to say something but decides against it at the last minute. Instead, he mutters, eyes focusing on a spot to the right of Isfan’s face, “No. Have a good night, sir.”

 

“Yeah, you too.”

 

He shuts the door without waiting for the stranger to speak, his back leaning heavily against the door as he tears open the letter with shaking fingers.

 

Something must have happened if Shapur wasn’t able to meet him in person or even send him a text. He imagines his older brother having to run away to another country because the police are after him, which wouldn’t be too much of a stretch considering the type of work he deals with on a daily basis, but Isfan realizes how foolish his worries have been when he finally unfolds the paper and reads the last words his brother will ever say to him.

 

“When this note reaches you, I’m most likely dead…”

 

The rest of the letter, written in meticulous cursive, is read in silence but Isfan neither takes in its content nor its meaning, the words run together in a swirling mess of ugly, blue ink; his tears have blurred a few lines of handwriting, the diluted Persian blue seeping down the page like streaks of blood.

 

Hours later when he’s sitting in the dark bedroom with the letter still grasped tightly in his hand, the sky outside starting to light up in orange glow of a new day, Isfan makes a decision and a promise to himself: to bring down the bastards who are responsible for his brother’s death.

 

He’s not a defenseless, frail little boy who needs someone to take his hand and lead the way anymore.

 

From this day, he drowns in the sorrow and indifference of winter.

 

-

 

Isfan is about to meet the murderer of his brother.

 

“Can I trust you to control your temper when you deliver this to him?” Daryun asks as he hands his subordinate a heavy leather suitcase, his deep voice, usually imbued with authority and solemnity, carrying a hint of concern.

 

Isfan takes the suitcase in one hand from the man with night-black locks and piercing golden eyes that would render weaker men to cower before him begging for mercy, and a miniscule of a smile appears on his lips, though it doesn’t touch his eyes at all, “What were you expecting me to do? I’ve never even saw the man before — I’m actually rather excited to meet the mysterious and most capable assassin of our company.”

 

Daryun’s brows gather into a deep frown.

 

“You’ve been with the Lion’s Den for the past three years, so I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts of rumours about Gieve’s involvement in Shapur’s death.”

 

Isfan tries to hide the flinch upon hearing his brother’s name, but it doesn’t escape Daryun’s observation.

 

“Your brother was a man I admired ever since I started here, when we were still working under Andragoras; he meant a lot to me and those who knew him well, too, but it’s not in our place to tell you what to think, or who to blame,” Daryun looks out the window of the office for a brief moment, the mask of inscrutable stoicism temporarily melted into an expression much softer, more human, when he allows himself to remember, and then he turns back to look at Isfan. “You should hear his side of the story first. Know who your true enemies are, Isfan. Your brother wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself because of him.”

 

It’s rare to see the arms dealer talking so much, but Isfan senses the older man’s sincerity, knows that he’s just looking out for him, and he appreciates that all the same.

 

“I promise I won’t do anything stupid,” he tells Daryun, mulling over what the older man has said.

 

Daryun seems satisfied at the brunet’s reply, but Isfan can feel the temptation slithering through his bloodstreams all the way to the tips of his fingers, the desire to pull the trigger, to feel the warmth emitting from the metal of the gun strapped closely to his side.

 

-

 

“Gieve, someone’s here to see you.”

 

Isfan and the young woman with an uncomfortable amount of face piercings who’s walking ahead of him enter a spacious and brightly-lit, L-shaped chamber located in the underground of an industrial part of the city.

 

At first glance, Isfan notices the peculiarly vivid and loud furnishings that overwhelms everything else within his sight: the walls are washed with deep turquoise and stark white frames; one wall is completely dominated by all types of firearms — from dainty pistols to heavyweight assault rifles and extravagant scopes and accessories — while the adjacent wall has shelves of expensive alcohol and a bar complete with a few stools; and the open space is decorated with a coffee table and strangely cozy couches of floral patterns that probably dated back to the 60’s that seem at odds with the purpose of this room.

 

From the far end of the chamber, Isfan hears the echoed cocking of a gun and the subsequent reports fired.

 

The woman pokes her head around the corner and calls out for her boss again but to no avail.

 

“Just take a seat anywhere and make yourself comfortable,” the woman waves her hand towards the couches when she walks past Isfan towards the direction they’ve come from. “When he gets like this, it’s going to take him awhile to come back.”

 

“Gets like this?”

 

“Testing out new firearms,” she says before closing the door on her way out.

 

He considers waiting as the woman has suggested, but pure curiosity and the desire to finally come face-to-face with his brother’s killer are burning furiously at the back of his mind, and after placing the suitcase under the coffee table, Isfan quietly walks towards where he can still hear the man fiddling with his weapon.

 

Gieve’s back is towards him, and the reason why he’s ignored his subordinate’s call previously is now clear to Isfan: he’s wearing a pair of hearing protector over his ears. From his position, Isfan observes the fluid and graceful way with which the man reloads the magazine with quick fingers and efficient movements.

 

Isfan has no idea how long he’s been staring at the man, as the assassin continues shooting at the paper targets with frightening accuracy and speed. Most of his shots are aimed either at the head or heart — the most delicate parts of a human body — and he hits his targets almost perfectly.

 

He’s been standing in the same place for so long that his legs are beginning to get numb, but he cannot tear his eyes away from the man, who seems so physically fragile when Isfan first sets eyes on him that, has he not witnessed Gieve’s shooting finesse, he would definitely have been one who underestimates the man’s true skills.

 

Putting the handgun down, he swivels around so unexpectedly that Isfan instinctively takes a step back in alarm.

 

He calmly takes off his protective gear and places them on the counter. Gieve doesn’t look surprised to see him there, as if he’s been expecting his presence all along.

 

The sense of self-preservation prickles hot in warning along Isfan’s spine, shouting at him to run, yet he can’t force his legs to move, transfixed as he is by the assassin’s ethereal grace and undeniable menace.

 

Doomed from the start, Isfan thinks, a long time from now.

 

“When did Daryun hire such a pretty delivery boy?”

 

He grins at Isfan, the expression playful and boyish, but Isfan is hyperaware of the hungry, wolfish curve of his lips and the dangerous glint in the man’s eyes.

 

“Mr. Daryun’s warned me about you, but you’ve definitely exceeded my expectations,” Isfan appraises him warily as the man approaches him.

 

Every step he takes is calculated and deliberate, and Isfan doesn’t miss the handgun strapped on the shoulder holster that wraps snugly along his slender body and over his wiry shoulders, the black leather a gorgeous complement to the dark hyacinthine-coloured button-down shirt and tailored feather-grey dress pants that accentuated his lithe figure.

 

Isfan swallows, eyes unable to look away from those eyes, beautiful like the summer sea and full of unspoken promises, or those lips that just won’t stop smiling at him, like Isfan is an amusing object and he’s enjoying this just as much as a cat enjoys toying with its prey.

 

“Oh? And what did Daryun tell you about me? All good things, I hope.”

 

He walks past the brunet and makes his way towards the couches. Isfan follows from a few paces behind.

 

“He said you’re an incorrigible flirt and that I should avoid coming within your reachable distance,” Isfan recalls Daryun’s words, which he thought was a joke at the time of the conversation.

 

“That was _one_ time!” Gieve laughs good-naturedly as he takes his seat. He gestures for Isfan to sit down across from him. “What else?”

 

“That I shouldn’t try to ambush you in any way or form if I want to stay in your good graces… and stay alive,” Isfan pushes on. He finds Gieve’s scrutiny mildly disconcerting, the green of his eyes a mesmerizing shade, yet it’s equally cold and cryptic.

 

“Good advice,” Gieve nods approvingly. “And?” He leans forward in his pause, elbows bracing against his knees as a lock of dark hair uncurl from behind his ear from the motion. “Why are you really here? Don’t tell me you’re in it for the money or the adrenaline rush.”

 

It seems like the assassin already knows Isfan’s identity and is looking for a particular answer, and Isfan thinks he may have the perfect response.

 

“He told me I should listen to your side of the story concerning my brother’s death,” Isfan’s voice is deceitfully calm, yet his heart is beating so hard that the blood roars in his ears, and he feels as if he can’t quite breathe.

 

Gieve’s expression gives neither his thoughts nor his emotions away, his mouth curling up into one of those inscrutable smiles that Isfan is beginning to despise.   

 

“Ah, the tragic, epic tale of one avenging his brother’s death — how touching,” he says, and it’s strange that despite his frivolous comment, his tone suggests that he’s merely stating an obvious fact.

 

Somehow, Gieve’s nonchalance makes Isfan even more furious. He slams both fists on the coffee table, golden eyes blazing with the intent to kill, but Gieve doesn’t so much as flinch.  

 

“You sick bastard, don’t you dare treat this as a joke!”

 

“I never intend to do such a thing, Isfan, but I don’t know what you want me to say, either,” Gieve leans back into the couch, unperturbed by the other man’s outburst.

 

“Tell me the truth, all of it!”

 

Gieve heaves a sigh, and runs his hand through his hair before he starts, gaze never straying from Isfan’s, “Here’s the thing: I’m an assassin, and if you couldn’t tell already, I make a living by killing people in the simplest method that requires the least amount of clean-up. Your brother — Shapur, if I recall correctly — he wasn’t part of the plan, but believe it or not, I saved him—”

 

“By putting a bullet in his head?” Isfan growls, low voice filled with incredulity.

 

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Gieve admits without hesitation or guilt, and Isfan hasn’t expected that.

 

He’s not about to make excuses for a job by hiding behind a wall of made-up righteous reasons; if the man before him still wants to take his life after he hears him out, then so be it. “How much do you know of the circumstances?”

 

“Just bits and pieces.” Isfan seems to have at least calmed down a little, though his jaw is still clenched and his body rigid, ready to spring at any moment.

 

“Did you know that your brother was captured by the Khosrow Group and that the senior members of the gang had been using, shall we say, ‘creative’ methods to extract information from Shapur — important information, secrets that can bring down Andragoras and the entire Ecbatana Group if given to the right person?  

 

“My job then was to take out the alpha of the branch group in charge of the extraction, so naturally your brother was at the location as well, and by god, those sons-of-bitches had fucked him up well beyond recognition.”

 

Gieve has seen his fair share of gore and violence — after all, it’s part of his job description — but what he saw that day through the tinted glass of the luxurious high-rise building that houses the many operations of Khosrow Group was one of the worst and inhuman images he’d encountered up until this point in his career: there were bleeding cuts and welts and bruises all over his body not covered by filthy clothes tainted in the man’s own sweat and blood, his eyes had been taken out, and his fingers looked sickeningly crooked.

 

They had ruined him just enough to have Shapur hanging precariously by a thin thread below which lies the canyon of sweet, liberating death.

 

Shapur wasn’t going to live, so Gieve did the only thing — the only merciful thing — he could to make it the least painful for a man he barely knew.

 

“What did they do to him?” There’s a trembling to Isfan’s whisper that makes the assassin look up.

 

“I don’t think you want to know,” Gieve says, tone earnest for the first time during their exchange.

 

Gieve allows the implication of that statement sink into Isfan’s mind, and watches the brunet carefully in case he lashes out again, but all Isfan can do is stare into his palms, his eyes prickling with unshed tears.

 

“It’s late to say this now, but I’m sorry for your loss,” Gieve’s sympathy is sincere, but Isfan refuses to acknowledge it with a noticeable gesture or expression. “Look, I’m not going to give bullshit excuses to defend my own action: I was the one who shot your brother, and his blood is on my hands. Just know that he was beyond saving by the time I got there, and putting him down was the only option I could think of at the time to end his suffering.”  

 

When Isfan remains eerily silent, Gieve continues with a modulated manner, “So? How should we proceed from here?”

 

Golden eyes flash vehemently and glare at him through brown forelocks, his hand slipping into his jacket and fingers grasping the familiar shape of his gun.

 

It will be so simple, Isfan thinks, and after that he’ll go after the bastards at Khosrow — every single one of them who’d hurt his brother.

 

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you — right here, right now.”

 

“Well for one thing—”

 

Gieve swiftly glances at Isfan’s hand inside his suit jacket and back to his face, a crooked smirk growing along his lips after he pauses.

 

In a matter of seconds, he’s already on his feet and launches himself straight at the other man by stepping directly on the coffee table between them, and Isfan, distracted by the toiling waves of anger and frustration that easily overwhelm his reason and perception, finds himself instantly trapped under Gieve’s smaller body, his arms pinned down and the tip of a knife held taut against the pulse point of his neck.   

 

The assassin lowers his head and whispers into Isfan’s ear, hot breaths moistening the sensitive skin there, “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.”

 

As if to prove his point further, he presses the tip of the blade with just enough pressure to split the surface of Isfan’s skin, and a bead of blood oozes from the tiny wound.

 

“Get the fuck off of me,” Isfan ignores the blade held close to his neck and growls deep in his throat.

 

“As long as you promise to be this entertaining every time we meet,” Gieve chuckles.

 

“Fuck you,” Isfan spits out in disgust.

 

“Maybe next time,” Gieve replies smoothly, and before Isfan can retort with a better comeback, Gieve retrieves his knife and gets off of him. Standing before him, the assassin hardly looks disheveled, his hair still a beautiful mess of ink black and sunset violet, and his shirt and pants still looking as pristine as ever.  

 

He pulls himself up, smoothing down his creased suit, and gives Gieve one last, scorching glare before he stalks out of the shooting range, slamming the door hard behind him.

 

Sometime after Isfan leaves and while Gieve is examining the contents inside the suitcase that Isfan has left behind, he receives a phone call from Daryun.

 

“How did it go?” Daryun asks without any preface.

 

“The [SRS](https://deserttech.com/product_overview.php?product_id=2&load=product_overview) is really pretty, and it seems fairly light-weight? And oh — so many convertible calibers to play with! You do know what I love best, Daryun, but I don’t think tan is quite my colour.”

 

“We can discuss the kind of modifications you want after you’ve tried it out,” Daryun says hurriedly before dragging Gieve back to the topic at hand, “I mean the talk with Isfan — how did that go?”

 

“If you’d wanted to send someone after my life, you should’ve picked one who’d pose more of a challenge for me,” he says without changing his tone, picking up one of the barrels and inspecting it closely.

 

“Fuck, he did something, didn’t he?” the man on the other end of the receiver sighs, and Gieve can just picture the usually calm and menacing arms dealer pinching the bridge of his nose with the most impressive frown.

 

“He certainly tried,” Gieve laughs heartily, placing all the parts back into the rifle’s case with meticulous care.

 

“I’m sorry,” Daryun mutters apologetically, “I honestly thought that, with three years between now and what’d happened to Shapur, he’d have an easier time taking it in.”  

 

“You should send him over more often, I want to see how far I can push him until he breaks,” he grins slyly.  

 

“Gieve… come on, play nice.”

 

Daryun can feel a migraine coming on as soon as Gieve uses _that_ tone of voice; he doesn’t have time, nor is he paid nearly enough, to play mother hen in this organization.

 

“Letting him get out of here alive after he attacked me today — that’s me playing nice,” Gieve says, not without a hint of threat in his playful tenor, “but I was kidding anyway. He seems like a decent kid, a bit too goody-two-shoes for my taste, but whatever works best for you.”

 

After the conversation concludes, Gieve takes out the switchblade he was brandishing earlier. The tip of the metal still bears Isfan’s dried blood, and as he carefully wipes his knife clean, the assassin figures that he may just try to win the other man over with charm, if only to make up for the life he’s taken from him.

 

-

 

“Okay Isfan, you may be cute, but did anyone ever tell you that you make really idiotic decisions sometimes?”

 

Gieve is positively certain that he’s leaving a very obvious trail of blood as Isfan tries to half-drag and half-carry him as quietly and quickly as possible without alerting their enemies of their whereabouts.

 

Somewhat tricky when the underground parking lot is really just a giant, enclosed amplifier that reverberates every little sound they accidentally make.

 

Hiding behind a Honda parked by the wall, Isfan finally has a chance to inspect his companion, who seems sickly pale and clammy, and is shocked to find that Gieve has been shot in the leg from the earlier scuffle. Blood has already soaked through and darkened the expensive fabric of his charcoal dress pants, and he can only see the entrance wound on one side of his calf, which means that the bullet is still embedded inside his flesh.

 

“Oh shit, you’re bleeding…like, a lot,” the brunet stutters, and his instinct is to put pressure on the wound to slow the blood flow. The warm blood gushes between his fingers, and Isfan tries not to think about it and is only vaguely successful in that regard.

 

“Yes, thank you for being so observant, that was really helpful,” Gieve mumbles, the sarcasm weak but forever present. His eyes slip closed as he leans back against the pleasantly cool metal of the vehicle while he tries not to wince at the stinging and burning sensation radiating from his wound every time he takes a deep breath.

 

“Zaravant, Jimsa, and the others should be here soon,” Isfan assures him — assures them both — as he creates a temporary dressing out of his rolled-up handkerchief secured by tightly winding his tie around it.

 

It’s only a matter of time before they are found; there’s only so much area to cover, and Khosrow Group, if nothing else, prides themselves in numbers.  

 

“How much ammo do you have left?” Gieve asks in a hoarse whisper. The blood loss hasn’t been so bad, but with the adrenaline from the fight gradually wearing off, the pain is becoming more unbearable and distracting.

 

“Two more rounds,” Isfan says after checking.

 

After a bit of fiddling and a lot of muttered swearing, Gieve pushes something into Isfan’s hands, “Here, take this.”

 

“But you never let anyone touch this gun,” Isfan blinks owlishly at the objects he receives from the assassin, two hands cradling Gieve’s treasured [Classic Carry Elite](http://www.kimberamerica.com/pistols/1911/custom-shop/classic-carry-elite) and the leftover rounds.

 

“You’re not ‘anyone’,” Gieve manages to crack open his eyes a little, the sea-green hazy and barely able to focus on Isfan’s face when he speaks, “I thought I made that very clear.”

 

“I can’t believe you can still say that with a straight face,” Isfan only replies with an exasperated laugh. He puts the gun and cartridges close by him.  

 

“And it’s not like I’ll be of any use with a gun right now, am I?” Gieve nods pointedly at his wound, and notices belatedly that his words are starting to slur, that his vision is turning blurry as well, and he rests his head against Isfan’s shoulder, exhaling a shuddering breath. “I trust you with my gun just as much as I trust you with my back.”

 

“You’re talking too much,” he mutters, cheeks growing strangely warm, but he’s sliding his arm around Gieve’s shoulder to bring him closer.

 

“Oh, sorry. Blood loss tends to do that to me.”

 

They stay quiet for a few minutes when they hear footsteps echoing in the distance.

 

When the sound dissipates again, Isfan finds the resolve to ask, “Why would you do that?”

 

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that, sweetheart.”

 

“Get yourself involved in this mess — my mess.”

 

“I’m not about to let you walk into Khosrow’s nest by yourself; you won’t last more than five minutes in here. Lion’s Den got a reputation to maintain, you know.”

 

“So, that’s it?”

 

Gieve swallows hard, fingers gathering into a loose fist when he allows himself to speak in frank admittance, “And also to compensate for what I’ve done… to Shapur, and to you.” His head is lowered so that it’s impossible for Isfan to see his expression.

 

“You’re an idiot,” Isfan shakes his head slowly, finally understanding.

 

“Excuse me, but who’s the jerk that brought us into this shit of a mess?”

 

“I knew what you did was necessary. My brother would have appreciated your weird brand of kindness, I think.” Even now, a sliver of uncertainty wedges its way into Isfan’s mind, but he knows that it’s useless chasing a phantom enemy when the true villains stand directly before them. The brunet runs gentle fingers through Gieve’s hair, matted with blood and sweat, and continues with a small smile, “I was just too much of an obstinate asshole to admit it, which is to say I’ve forgiven you some time ago.”

 

A brief pause, and then comes Gieve’s raspy yet snarky reply, “You couldn’t have let me know about this sooner?”

 

-

 

He can’t remember when pushing Gieve against the wall and kissing him ardently on the mouth have become more of a matter of habit than just an outlet to release the adrenaline from their latest mission or the lingering frustration that he bears towards the infuriating assassin.

 

“Jacket, off,” Isfan orders as soon as they stumble into Gieve’s bedroom, the words muffled against the other man’s lips as they share a wet, filthy kiss, all tongue and vicious teeth leaving their lips swollen and red.

 

“Mm, pushy,” he gasps out when Isfan starts to nibble his way down his neck, leaving a trail of marks that will bloom purple while unknotting his tie and roughly pushing his jacket off of his shoulders to reveal the lavender button-down and the leather gun holster.

 

“Are you complaining?” he asks, leaning away momentarily to let Gieve tear off his suit jacket before the slighter man pulls him back in by his tie and gives him a bruising kiss that left both men breathless and wanting more.

 

“Not at all,” he grins mischievously up at the brunet, sea-green eyes darkened by desire.

 

Gieve pushes him back until they reach the edge of the bed, and the moment Isfan sits down on the mattress, the assassin wastes no time to clamber onto his lap, taking advantage of the height this position grants him in assaulting his companion’s neck with more enthusiastic kisses and licks while his elegant fingers make quick works on Isfan’s tie and buttons, soon revealing a long patch of tantalizing skin and muscles that begs to be touched and marked.

 

He starts at the collarbone, peeling off the material of Isfan’s shirt bit by bit as if to tease himself and kissing lightly along the exposed skin until he reaches his shoulder, but before Gieve can even consider taking the rest of the garment off, Isfan stops him with his fingers wrapped around his wrist, his golden eyes rapturous and captivating the entirety of Gieve’s attention, and possibly his heart.

 

Taking Gieve’s hand and with his gaze focused on the assassin’s face, Isfan leads him to the grip of Gieve’s prized handgun. The wooden round heel feels oddly cold against their overheated skin, and it sends a trickle of thrill and excitement down Gieve’s spine, his irises darkening with the promise of more.

 

Isfan knows that look well — a sort of hunger that can only be satiated by relinquishing his control to Isfan whom he trusts always — and pulls him close by a fistful of his shirt, mouth by his ear.

 

“May I?”

 

He may have whimpered at the infuriatingly polite tone and the contrasting connotation they both comprehend that those two words hold.

 

“Fuck, yes please,” he moans against the crook of Isfan’s neck.

 

The brunet takes the holster off of Gieve’s willowy frame and lays the leather straps on the bed; with utmost care, Isfan removes the gun from its holster, holding it gently in his right hand to feel the smooth grip and solid weight while his left thumb traces the bi-tone metal of the slide mechanism.

 

As Isfan takes his time to appreciate the elegant form of the gun, Gieve is getting a little impatient, and he makes certain that Isfan is aware of this by grinding himself against Isfan’s thigh, his breathing hitched just from that slight pressure.

 

“You’re so pretty when you’re eager,” Isfan chuckles, his lips curving into a playful smirk when he brings them closer for another kiss, much softer this time, more contemplative but less satisfying, and the inferno of lust simmers down into a single flame.

 

That is, until Isfan pulls himself back from the kiss and says, with a hand firm on Gieve’s shoulder, “Down on your knees for me.”

 

He complies without a cheeky retort, which is a rare occasion by itself, and lets Isfan undress him slowly — torturously so — until he’s only in his briefs. The material has already been stained by precum from their foreplay, and Isfan hasn’t even started yet.

 

Retrieving the gun from the mattress, he holds it out before Gieve’s face, the tip of the barrel barely an inch away from those reddened lips Isfan has been so fervently kissing earlier.

 

Gieve eyes the weapon with glazed eyes, and then glances up at Isfan as if asking for his permission. It’s an act that they’ve played a few times before, and they understand and trust each other entirely in this regard.

 

“Go on,” Isfan urges quietly, fingers running through Gieve’s hair in an affectionate manner as he combs his bangs back to reveal rosy cheeks and stormy eyes, “I thought you wanted this.”

 

With his heated gaze still trained on Isfan’s face, Gieve begins to lean forward, touching his lips against the metal and closing his eyes at the delirious pressure against his sensitive lips when Isfan presses the gun closer, with more urgency.

 

There’s something inexplicably sensual about the way his tongue curls around the muzzle and laps at the rose gold and gunmetal of the slide with so much eagerness, the red of his lips such a beautiful contrast to the gun’s cold shades of silver and black.

 

He moans around the barrel as he tries to take it in deeper, one hand clawing at Isfan’s clothed knee with the sort of desperation that makes the brunet want nothing more than to break down the assassin’s perfectly poised stature, that self-assured smirk, the shield of pride that builds up from his successful kills.

 

Isfan wants to destroy it all for the moment and expose what’s beneath all that blood and history and secrets that even now, after having been together for almost a year in a relationship they don’t dare put a label on, Gieve is still hesitant to tell him.

 

Swallowing greedily around his precious firearm’s barrel and gripping Isfan’s thighs with whitened knuckles, Gieve revels in the stretch and fullness in his mouth.

 

With his hand still grappling Gieve’s hair, Isfan tightens his fingers and tugs the other man’s head back so that the gun is no longer in his mouth. Gieve whines at the loss, and whimpers when Isfan teases him a little more by dragging the warmed metal down his jaw and the column of his neck.

 

When he places the gun back into its holster and hangs the leather straps on the back of his chair, Isfan returns to the bed to find Gieve in the same position — kneeling and staring up at him with dark eyes and red lips, his hair mussed up from Isfan playing with it, and his underwear a wet, wet mess.

 

He isn’t going to be disappointed for long.

 

“You’ve been so good,” Isfan softly traces the other man’s lower lip with his thumb as he sits back down on the edge of the bed, and because Gieve will always be Gieve, his tongue darts out and shamelessly chases after the taste of Isfan’s finger, encouraging him to put the digit into his warm mouth. “Would you like a reward?”

 

“And what will that entail?” he asks, voice hoarse from their earlier activity but eyes still glimmering with interest.

 

“Let’s just say it’ll involve my tongue and your ass,” Isfan tells him, as casual as if he’s explaining the mechanics of the new modifications on one of Gieve’s guns. Isfan helps him up from the floor and removes his soaked briefs.

 

“Intriguing,” Gieve comments just as lightly, though the flush on his cheeks is almost too obvious, and then Isfan is guiding him so that the assassin is lying on the bed with his hands and knees bracing the mattress. “Enjoying the view?” he asks teasingly, turning his head to give the other man his signature smug look, which Isfan is intending on destroying in a few minutes.

 

He finds the bottle of lubricant and condoms in the bedside drawer and places the items where he can easily reach for them before situating himself behind Gieve, one hand gently fondling the assassin’s soft skin, finger tracing down the knobs of his vertebrae and stopping at the small of his back, where it’s slightly curved, giving the impression of a graceful feline ready to spring.

 

“A bit, yeah,” Isfan murmurs.

 

Compared to Gieve, Isfan is still wearing too much clothes: his unbuttoned slate-blue shirt hangs off of his shoulders, and his trousers are feeling too tight and constricting at the sight of Gieve — shed of all the layers that created a convincing front for the public eye, steel-eyes and iron-bones, cold and unbreakable, a killer with no regrets, now shaking with anticipation, eyes predatory yet yielding as he feasts on Isfan’s adoration and attention.

 

It’s been so long since Gieve feels even remotely comfortable sharing this part of himself with anyone, and he wouldn’t have guessed the current outcome a few years ago. Isfan is the type Gieve has tried his best to avoid: distressingly earnest, genuinely good to those he treasures, and irrevocably loyal to those deserving few.

 

“Only a bit?” Gieve snorts, facing the headboard of the bed again, “I’m insulted—— shit!”

 

He’s rudely interrupted by Isfan, who has, without warning, starts licking down between his butt cheeks, his hands tight on his hips as he tentatively traces a path with the tip of his tongue until he reaches the ring of quivering muscle.

 

“Mm, you were saying?” he murmurs with a slow smile, and the hot breaths casted against sensitive skin with a warm tongue that begins to stiffen and delving inside make Gieve’s arousal swell, skin crawling with pinpricks of burning stars, eyes shut tightly and hands gathering fistfuls of bedsheets.

 

“You…” he huffs out when he attempts, unsuccessfully, to regain his composure against the gentle and frustrating assault from his lover’s mouth, “you are an asshole who enjoys tormenting me with that talented tongue of yours way too much.”

 

“Makes up for all the times you’ve teased me in front of the others,” Isfan responds with a low chuckle, and he sucks the rim with just enough pressure so that the other man loses his train of thought, his mind blissfully blank and overwhelmed by pleasure, “Calling me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘pretty’…”  

 

“But I was just being honest…” he whines when he locates his voice after a short while, still trying to be defensive even as he feels Isfan’s slicked fingers entering him, slowly pushing in until he grazes the particular spot that causes Gieve to groan into the pillows, his cock twitching in want.

 

Gently and with careful hands on his waist, Isfan turns him over so that Gieve is lying on his back, one leg propped on Isfan’s shoulder. Below him, the assassin looks ravished: his face and body are flushed a lovely shade of pink though the long scar across his chest just below his collarbone draws a pearl-toned line, his lips bitten raw, sea-green eyes glassy, and the thin lines of black ink on his biceps stark on his skin that tell the bloody history of his past, a bitter reminder but an emblem of personal pride, nevertheless.

 

“Yeah? As honest as you are now? With your body splayed out and displayed for me like this?” Isfan turns his head slightly to place a soft kiss on the pale scar on his calf, and remembers a time when he’d never imagine that his future will turn out like this: being in an intimate relationship with the man whom he’s sworn to kill to avenge his brother’s death, only to realize that he’s not the true enemy at all.

 

 The scar marks a change in their relationship, and Isfan never wants to turn back.   

 

“God, why did I ever thought you were a goody-two-shoes?” Gieve moans when he feels the tip of Isfan’s length nudge against him.

 

With little difficulty, Isfan is able to slide all the way in, and the tight warmth that engulfs him is enough to make the brunet’s heart tremble and his frame shake with yearning. He leans down to kiss Gieve, just a gentle peck on the mouth, barely enough.

 

“Should I be a good boy for you next time, then?” Isfan grins, topaz irises gleaming with wicked intent.  

 

“Cheeky,” Gieve laughs before dragging him down for a deeper, longer kiss, his legs wrapped tightly around Isfan’s waist to wordlessly encourage him to move.

 

With one of his hands securing Gieve’s leg on his shoulder and the other on his hip, Isfan begins to pull out, slowly at first, knowing how much it’ll drive the other man crazy and allowing himself to feel every inch slipping out before he pushes back in again with a snap of his hips, the motion hard enough to jostle Gieve’s body and making him gasp from the sensation.

 

“Touch yourself for me,” Isfan murmurs as he continues, guiding Gieve’s hand to his dripping cock. He doesn’t need more encouragement as he tries to match Isfan’s furious pace, his fist pumping fast with a chaotic rhythm that soon loses to the coil of heat burning low in his abdomen, the exhales branding hot against his neck as Isfan’s breathing quickens, the need to release burning bright and blinding.

 

Gieve comes first, with curses spouting from his mouth and his back arched up as ribbons of white flow between his fingers, warm and wet and making a mess on his skin; it doesn’t take long for Isfan to unravel after watching his lover spill all over himself, his body shuddering as he comes inside Gieve with a low grunt and a whisper of his name.

 

Wrapped in this warmth — Gieve’s warmth, strangely contradictory when he ponders upon it, a cold-blooded killer capable of this gentle, tender warmth — and embraced within those arms, their hearts beating together, Isfan thinks he’s finally ready to leave the darkness of winter behind and welcome the sweet light of spring.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god. I’m NEVER writing anything that has to do with guns EVER again, fuck me. But I really do enjoy writing assassin!Gieve being needy as fuck in the bedroom. Go figure. Also, can you tell I just basically gave up at the end there? LOL. 
> 
>  
> 
> A few notes/HCs concerning this AU if anyone cares:
> 
> \- After Isfan graduates, he calls up Daryun, whose contact information was written on the Shapur’s letter, along with Narsus and Farangis’. The only reason he calls Daryun and not the other two is because they’ve actually met each other before when Isfan is still a teenager.
> 
> \- Isfan is technically a weapon designer who helps researching and upgrading weapons, working under Daryun’s supervision for three years. (Imagine Q from 007!)
> 
> \- Gieve was a freelance assassin before he joins Arslan’s Lion’s Den. He has an obsession with guns and sees beauty in the designs, accuracy, and ergonomics of firearms. He likes using expensive guns that are efficient for his jobs and are pretty to look at. 
> 
> \- Gieve has tattoos on his biceps — thin lines of black ink around the arm, each signifies one kill in his career. 
> 
> \- In the bedroom, Gieve willingly relinquishes his control to Isfan, whom he trusts with unwavering loyalty and love. While Gieve always calls Isfan “pretty” and “sweetheart” in public, on their own, Gieve will get turned on as soon as Isfan starts using pet names.


End file.
